#abaddon!dean

Alternate ending for 9x21: King of the Damned

"A boy and his blade...and still no match for the new Queen." Abaddon sneered and extended her hand toward Dean, throwing him backward, into the wall behind him where she kept him pinned. "So, first you'll die. Painfully. And then Crowley will watch his son die. I know. Ditto." she said with a smirk at seeing his expression. "And then the king himself." she scoffed. "That's quite a to do list." Dean glared at her as he struggled to free himself from her power. When he did, he staggered toward her, seemingly oblivious to her stunned expression as he lifted the hand that held the First Blade. Another blast of power sent him back into the wall, knocking the Blade from his hand in the process. Fuck.

and judging by the stills from Blade Runners that are going around, Dean and Sam get to it first.

So what if she finds them with it. What if she sees that Dean has the Mark and realizes if she possesses him, she’d be fucking invincible, because whoever has the Mark can’t be killed, according to the biblical lore.

Plus the Blade is the only thing we know of that can kill her.

So if she has that, plus a vessel that bears the Mark of Cain, possesses the First Blade, and has a wealth of knowledge of hunting, monsters, demons and every other foul piece of shit everywhere, she wouldn’t be a Knight of Hell anymore.

She combed eagerly through every memory she could find -- even ones as juvenile as spending his childhood being his brother's caretaker. When she found the vague memories of the night Mary Winchester had died, she felt like a kid on Christmas morning.

 That was something she liked to replay for him when she was bored -- or when he felt like trying to fight her.

She spent hours combing through his extensive knowledge of every evil thing on the planet -- vampires, shifters, spirits, poltergeists, werewolves...you name it.

Then she found it -- the perfect memory to use against the hunter when he tried to fight against the horrible things she made him do.

She found his memories of hell. When she found the one where Alastair informed Dean that he'd broken the First Seal, she'd been intrigued, and so she searched for hours, hoping to come across that moment.

The first time she replayed it, it was just for a reaction. Dean had been silent for days, though she knew he was still 'awake' inside his meat suit.

Listening to him scream as he realized what he was seeing, what he was reliving was fucking priceless.

The second time she did it because he'd gotten control. She'd been careless, had been exhausted. It hadn't taken her long though, and she'd forced him into the corner of his own head once more.

He didn't scream, but she felt the fear, the revulsion -- the agony as he watched what he'd done in silence.

It didn't take Abaddon long to settle into Dean's body once she was inside it. She looked down at the First Blade with vague interest, delight coiling inside her as she imagined what it would be like to see Cain fall, to watch his blood wash over the blade, drip onto the floor and pool under his lifeless body. The persistent screaming in the back of her mind pulled her back to the present. "Screaming will do you no good," she muttered. "You're mine for the long haul, Handsome." One of his memories suddenly flashed before her eyes, making her cry out, body lurching upright from where it had lain on the floor. The shock wore off after a moment, and she focused on what she'd seen.

YOU ARE THE DEVIL WRITING THE THINGS //lays down after imagining Sam seeing Dean possessed by Abbadon fuck my life.

************************************

"Please, oh God please no... My name is Martha, I have a 12-year-old daughter, I- I'm a paediatric nurse, I'm a good person I'm a good person, please!"

She couldn't stop herself from sobbing out those last words; she was terrified and she was desperate. And she was searching for a way not to die.

The man standing before her cocked his head to the side, a smile stretched wide across his face. There was a warmth to his eyes that contradicted the malicious intent that smile conveyed.

"Oh Dean, do you hear that?", he said, keeping his eyes firmly on Martha's face, "She's playing our favourite song, how sweet."

Martha found herself pausing her breath, unable for a moment to take in air. Was there a second man here, one she hadn't noticed yet? She shot the most fleeting of glances to her side to give herself the mere half second she dared to look for the presence of another before fixing her sights back on the man in front of her. Shaking, she managed a whispered, cracked "Who's Dean?" Perhaps a conversation of sorts might see her survive this.

The man crouched down closer to Martha, their faces inches from each other. He raised his right hand to her cheek and rested his palm against it, gently stroking her skin with his thumb. His gaze had been fixed on the movement, but now it shifted to look Martha in the eyes again. A look of incredulous amusement had lit up his face as he breathed out a single chortle. "Why, I am of course!"

Martha processed this for a moment and realised this was not a man who was in his right state of mind, not capable of being reasoned with, not capable of being bargained with; she knew these would be her last moments alive.

**************************************

Abaddon made sure to fix her gaze on the whimpering cattle kneeling in front of her. She wasn't going to let Dean miss a second of this. He would look into her eyes and see the light behind them fade, see the life still yet to be lived, that should have been lived, disappear. Those future memories that should have been created and carried with the soul to create part of life after life, never would be.

And that will be all down to you Dean, to momma's blunt little instrument.

"I'm a good person I'm a good person." The pitiful beast was sobbing now.

"Oh Dean, do you hear that? She's playing our favourite song, how sweet!"

Abaddon knelt down to be face to face with the crying woman. She guided Dean's right hand to stroke the sodden cheek, smiling at the significance of the gesture and at Dean knowing all too well what she was doing.

Abaddon then grabbed at the woman's coat collar with Dean's left hand and pulled out a blade from under his jacket with his right. She laughed inwardly; her meatsuit was trying to stop her and she revelled in and savoured every moment of it. He tried to fight against his hand's forced grip on the blade's handle, to stop the motion of his arm as it brought the knife to the woman's throat. But Abaddon was too strong for him and he watched his own hands butcher the innocent woman before him.

*************************************

Not that one, not that one...

It was a memory that Dean had tried to bury deep. Thirty years under the knives, hooks, razors, and bare hands of one of Hell's most creative and he couldn't any more. He just couldn't. He had stood there watching as she was dragged onto the rack, hands and feet hooked down. Alistair had handed him the blade and gestured at him to go forth. And as Dean had approached her, this nameless other, she had begged. Pleaded with him. Screamed at him not to do this, to show mercy.

And it was the most beautiful aria he had ever heard.

The melody of it, he had never heard a thing so sweet nor likely ever would again. Because the voice crying out in the sulphurous heat of the pit, that voice of terror, of desperation, wasn't his. Three decades prior he had screamed (for Sam, John, for God), screamed until his throat had bled, until no more sound could be made. And now the sound was someone else's. He had breathed that in, held it within him so that it couldn't escape, so it could stay with him always. And he had wanted to thank the woman. For not being him. But he couldn't bring himself to speak, to corrupt the echo of the voice that wasn't his. So he had raised his hand and rested his palm against the woman's cheek, thumb stroking it. And then he had torn into her with blade, with hands, with no remorse.